


all your doors open up for me

by poalimal



Series: WIP Amnesty [18]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe(s), F/M, Gen, Homophobia, Implied Outing, M/M, accidental universe hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poalimal/pseuds/poalimal
Summary: Dex really does have magic hands - but that's probably the least important part of this story.





	1. Chapter 1

Morning. Derek is brushing his teeth with his eyes mostly closed when a Christopher Chow-shaped person sticks his head out of the shower, dripping shampoo and suds, and says, 'What the fuck.'

Derek yawns. 'My bad, C,' he mumbles, toothbrush still in mouth. 'Didn't hear the shower going.'

He closes the door behind himself, and stands in the hallway, idly scratching his stomach. Wonders when Whiskey changed out the shower rug.

'Oh, right,' Derek says, at lunch, 'sorry again about this morning. Just remembered.'

Chris is twirling his second fork fruitlessly in his mushroom bisque. Derek hands him his unused spoon, waves away his thanks. It always helps to carry extra cutlery, when eating with Chris.

'What happened this morning?' asks Chris, blowing at his soup. Derek looks at his lips, then at his soup, then out the window behind his head.

'You know,' says Derek, casual, 'the whole shower thing. Thought the door would be locked. Anyway, I thought you fixed the door when you did the lights?' This last part he directs at Dex, who has been ignoring him since last night for-- who knows why anymore.

Dex ignores him. Derek rolls his eyes. Chris sighs.

'Sorry if I left my stuff out in the bathroom,' says Chris, when they're walking back from the gym later that afternoon. 'I totally don't mind when you use my shampoo, you know! You don't have to apologise or anything.'

'Huh?' says Derek, distracted. He's got big thumbs - emailing his Professor on his phone takes all the coordination he can spare.

He doesn't have much: he trips, phone goes flying, Chris catches him. He's actually still apologising, even as he dusts Derek off.

'--know I've been spending more of my mornings over at Cait's,' he's saying, 'but like, feel free to call me on my shit. And really, if I leave my stuff lying out when I'm not even there, like this morning, feel free to use it!'

Derek thanks Chris, nodding, sure-sure, sounds great. Chris starts talking about Cait's bodywash. Cucumber sea mint, same as Chris's - go figure.

Derek picks up his phone from the grass; uncracked. _Hi Professor Demmmmmm_ , reads the beginning of his email, sent bare seconds ago. Awesome.

He doesn't really register what Chris said until later that night, when it crowds out all the other thoughts keeping him up.

_I've been spending more of my mornings over at Cait's... I leave my stuff lying out when I'm not even there, like this morning..._

But Derek had been so sure--

Well. Maybe he was just tired. Seeing things he wanted to see. Chris in the shower. Looking at him. The usual.

* * *

Derek stumbles into the bathroom in the middle of the night needing to pee, half-asleep, and nearly trips over Chris again.

'Sorry, bro, I gotta,' says Derek, stumbling past him to stand in front of the toilet. He starts to piss.

'Jesus Christ!' says Chris, turning his head quickly.

'I know, I know,' says Derek, yawning, 'I'm gross, I'm sorry.' He finishes up with several careful shakes, budges Chris over to wash his hands.

Chris says, 'hey-hey-hey, watch it!' and backs quickly away. Derek ignores this, and occupies himself by looking around for a towel to wipe his hands on.

That's when he pauses, and really looks around for the first time. Hands dripping, he turns in a small circle.

This is not the top floor bathroom in the Haus.

'Chris,' he says, staring wide, 'um. Where are we?'

'What do you mean, where are you?' says Chris, very quietly. Derek snaps his gaze to him - and he realises he's looking at a stranger with Chris's face. A very _big_ stranger with Chris's face. 'You're in my house, again, and I'm calling the police, again.'

What? Ok. Wait. What? Again? Derek reaches down with fingers still wet, and pinches himself in the thigh. He flinches.

He doesn't wake up.

Other Chris takes out his phone. 'Ok,' says Derek, throat dry, looking wide all around them, at the glittering grey marble, 'ok. Why don't we both just-- calm down, and talk this through?'

Other Chris flicks his gaze up. 'What is there to talk about?' he says. 'Just 'cus you were a fan-- just 'cus you've seen me play or whatever, it doesn't mean you know me. It doesn't mean you have a right to do this to people. And then you sell personal shit--' he starts walking toward Derek '-- _private shit_ to the tabloids, and talk about how I'm not safe to be around.' He puts his hand on his chest. 'I mean, don't I have a right to feel safe? Don't I have a right to feel safe?'

'You-- of course you have a right to feel safe!' Derek says, shaken. His brain is waking up too slowly, he still doesn't know what the fuck is going on. Maybe this is some kind of walking dream? Waking dream, whatever. 'I don't-- look, I just wanted to use the bathroom, I have no idea why I'm here, I don't want to sell-- anything of yours. To anybody!'

'No, you don't get to play pretend here,' Other Chris says, circling him. Derek turns slow on the slippery bathroom tile, watching him; tries to keep his breathing even. 'Why the fuck did you come back? Did you think you were gonna catch me in the act? Sucking someone's dick?'

'Chris,' Derek says, softly.

'Oh, oh, sucking your dick, maybe?' says Other Chris, laughing. 'I'm too gay to play hockey, but not too gay to get you off, is that right?'

'Chris,' Derek says again, 'I didn't know. I didn't say anything. I'm sorry.'

Other Chris laughs again. He's very close; Derek backs away, closer to the bathroom door. 'Those photos didn't take themselves, did they?'

'I didn't take any photos,' Derek insists, 'I--' it had felt like a dream, almost, stumbling into the bathroom, half-naked, and seeing someone blurry and Chris Chow-like--

'--I was practically naked,' he says aloud. 'Where would I have even hidden a camera?'

'How the fuck am I supposed to know?' says Chris, coming even closer. Derek flinches back, sees the flicker of surprise on Chris's face, and finds himself slipping backwards. Shit-shit-fuck.

He reaches back desperately for the wall, the door, anything to catch his fall. His right arm lands at a weird angle on the door frame, he feels a crack, his elbow jams hard into the lights - and he's submerged in a wave of dizzying darkness.

He leans back hard against the door; hears the tight, narrow sound of his own gasps. He's long outgrown asthma, but some things still come natural to him: he breathes in deep, breathes out slow. Breathes in deep, breathes out slow. And repeats.

Gradually, the rest of his senses return to him. It smells, he thinks, like unwashed socks.  
He stands away from the door, trembly still, and reaches out for the wall again; knocks down some toothbrushes along the way, finding the light switch. He swallows. And presses down.

There before him is the too-bright light of the Haus bathroom. Cramped and otherwise empty.

His legs go weak with relief; he slides down against the door. His heart is still pumping hard. He can't make himself move for many moments. When he does, when he raises himself up, his legs are still shaky.

He turns to the bathroom door, pausing to gather his courage - and he swings the door open all at once, breathing hard.

The Haus hallway is empty. He is alone.

* * *

His _hand_ fucking hurts.

* * *

His right wrist is sprained, turns out, and he has to wear a cast for a few weeks. The coaches bench him for the next three games. He wants to protest: when _Dex_ broke his wrist--

but it's different, between him and Dex.

Derek starts practising a lot more on his own, away from coaches and teammates, against the advice of his doctor. It's lucky in its own way, because he also starts showering at the rink. It's not a big deal, really, he's just planning to never use the Haus shower ever again in his life.

Of course, showering at the rink is fine when he has morning classes, because then he can just go straight to class. But when he has to take a shower in the evening? On Sundays? On days when they have away games? It's a fucking nightmare.

'A fucking _nightmare_ ,' he says to himself, throwing a pair of socks into his bag. Obviously he won't have time for a shower today.

'Nursey! Chowder!' calls Ford, down at the bottom of the stairs. Her voice is hoarse from the concert. She still manages to give very good bellow: 'What's the hold up? We need to leave now!'

'Yea, I'm,' Derek dives into his covers, unearths some semi-clean briefs, 'I'm coming!'

'Don't forget your toothbrush,' says Chris. Chris has been packed and ready for fifteen minutes, the bus has been downstairs for ten, Derek overslept and has been throwing his life together for five.

'Toothbrush,' Derek repeats mechanically. He blinks at Chris, leaning his head against the doorway. 'Toothbrush!'

(His toothbrush is actually in his handy little toiletry bag, tossed in with his gear bag. He will remember this later.)

He dances around Chris, careful not to touch, and slip-jogs down the hallway in his socks. He remembers what he's doing only after he's thrown himself through the bathroom door and slammed it closed behind him.

There, on the wrong side of the door, the Other Chris sits on the floor of his shower. Beneath the spray of water, he's fully dressed. The glass door is open - water pools underneath six or so empty beer bottles, onto the bathroom floor.

Other Chris looks up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. With his hair plastered to his face like that, he looks just like Chowder.

Derek skitters back, startled, and immediately turns around to open the bathroom door again. But Other Chris just laughs.

'I knew you were real,' he says.

Derek pauses. His heart is thudding very hard in his chest.

'She said I imagined it,' says Other Chris. 'But why would I imagine you?' Derek holds his breath, and reaches for the doorknob. 'Where are you going?'

He doesn't turn around. 'I'm just gonna go get a toothbrush real quick,' he says.

'Oh. ok,' says Other Chris. His voice is very quiet. 'See you.'

Derek spends a long time staring at the white painted wood and polished brass knob of the bathroom door.

It would be so easy. Turn, pull, leave.

Chris flicks his eyes up at Derek's approach. His cheek is swelling and bruised, his lips waxy and blue. No steam rising from the shower, Derek notes; if the water was hot before, it certainly isn't now.

'Hey,' he says, bending down carefully. The water soaks through his socks - freezing. He keeps his voice low. 'What are you doing in there, huh?'

Chris shuts his eyes, shrugs. The water hisses down. 'Hurts,' he says simply.

'Well. Getting sick isn't going to make it feel better,' Derek says, trying to smile. 'C'mon, up-up-up. Put-- where are your--? Aha, here we go, put this around your neck. I'll turn it off, don't worry about it. C'mon, C. Do you have a hair dryer? You gotta have a hair dryer, listen, all that thick hair-- aha!' He emerges triumphant, from the largely empty space underneath the sink. 'Here we go!'

He plugs the hair dryer in. Chris doesn't react when he points it at him. It only worries him further.

'All right,' he says brightly, because the only other sound is the shower, still going, 'we're just gonna get your hair dry, then we're gonna change your clothes, get some water in you, and get you to bed. You're probably tired, huh.'

Chris tips his head down. The bags beneath his eyes look like thumbprints. 'No,' he says.

Derek doesn't push him. Instead he turns on the hair dryer, testing the medium setting on the inside of his own arm with only a little difficulty, then in the air around Chris's head. 'Too hot?'

Chris shrugs his shoulders till they slump. The hair dryer is loud, so Derek doesn't try to talk over it again. He wishes it were ok to try. Chris obediently ducks his head beneath the warm rush of air, closing his eyes. Derek dries the front of his hair, then the middle, then the back. He doesn't stare into Chris's face; doesn't stop when he begins to shiver hard.

The hitch in Chris's chest Derek feels like his own. And something he thought / he'd tightly held closed / comes heaving once open again.

'Stay with me,' Derek says hoarsely, even though there's no way that Chris can hear him. 'You're here, Chris, you're ok. Just stay with me.'

Chris opens his eyes and looks at Derek clearly. Derek turns off the hair dryer. Takes a slow step back. Chris reaches out with the first three fingers from his right hand, and pinches the bottom of Derek's shirt.

'Ok,' he says.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning again: the first thing Chris notes is the heat, all along his side; the second, the warmth of sour breath against his face. He wakes up one eye at a time. There, curled up beside him asleep, is the stranger from last night. He's got pillow lines on his face.

He looks young.

Chris grimaces, and pushes himself up in bed. Kharyn is standing in his bedroom doorway, staring at them both. She jerks her head softly to the left, then walks out.

Chris puts his head in his hands for a long moment - then he gets out of bed.

'Lot of bottles in the recycling bin,' Kharyn observes downstairs, her head in the fridge. 'That kid even allowed to drink?'

Well - that's one way of phrasing the question she really wants to ask.

Chris leans slowly against the counter. 'I dunno,' he says. 'I don't know how old he is. I was-- pretty out of it last night.'

Kharyn turns around, emotions tamped all the way down on her face. Right now, she's all agent. 'Did you take anything? Did you give him anything?'

Chris tries to feel indignant. You know me better than that, he wants to say. But it's just business between the two of them now.

'It was just beer,' he says. 'And it was just me drinking. He didn't drink anything, he-- he dried my hair. We slept. That's all.'

'He dried your hair,' says Kharyn, carefully. Shit.

'No, I was drunk, I--' he fumbles, 'I wanted to take a shower, but didn't feel like taking off my clothes. And that's how he found me.'

'Found you?' Kharyn steps in closer, looking concerned. 'Chris... is this the stalker from before?'

'No,' Chris shakes his head vehemently, even though it makes his stomach spin. 'No. He took care of me.'

'That doesn't matter!' she insists. 'He could be upstairs right now, taking more pictures of all your stuff.'

Chris lowers his head. 'I got rid of all that stuff,' he mumbles.

'What?' Kharyn looks honestly confused. 'Why would you do that?'

'It's--' Chris can't look at her. 'It was just. I had some questions. You know. Things I wanted to try. That's not who I am. I didn't know how to tell you. I'm sorry I lied to you.'

Kharyn's face crumples. 'Chris,' she says. 'I think I have to quit.'

Chris feels his stomach start to crumble. 'Why?' he says. 'I'm sorry, Khay, I'm _sorry_. I know this has been hard on you--'

'No,' she says. 'This isn't about doing my job well. This is about you, and what you need. You need a good friend in your corner, Chris. And I can't tell you what you need to hear as your agent, and what you need to hear as your friend.'

'Says who?' says Chris, standing up. 'I want you as my agent, and I want you as my friend.'

Kharyn shakes her head slightly. 'Ok,' she says, sighing. 'Well, as your agent - I need to know the truth from you. Whatever it is. We can't afford anymore surprises right now. Nike is very seriously considering dropping you, and we have worked too hard to get you that endorsement deal. Did you sleep with that kid?'

'No,' says Chris. 'I didn't.'

'Are you gay?'

'No!' His voice cracks. 'I don't know!'

'Well,' says Kharyn, 'I guess I can work with _I don't know_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No way Derek would not immediately tell the world that he'd travelled multiple universes!


End file.
